RP:The Sands of Time
Part of the Township Troopers Arc
This is a Warrior's Guild RP.
Summary: Ahead of the pending Warrior's Guild mission, Lionel and Rorin traverse the Nameless Desert in search of clues to the whereabouts of Gualon's insectoid colony. Lionel is forced to confront an aspect of the Second Immortal War when a kindly old couple with a fine collection of secrets offers to help the guild -- and reminds Lionel of a mysterious oath.
Gualon: Deserted valley
Lionel | For two days and two nights, Lionel O’Connor and Rorin Deleas Gilead have traveled the Nameless Desert. They’ve seen ruins -- great spires into the sky, piercing the heavens, and smaller crumbled messes of long-forgotten towns -- and they’ve braved the elements as best they can, dressed in layered tan garb. Lionel had told Rorin, and the rest of the guild for that matter, that wyvern flight while scouting the region would be unwise due to the gale force winds along the perimeter. He didn’t lie, per se, but he kept things oversimplified; in truth, those winds are but a specter of the many-faceted magical dangers of the Nameless. They’re an old spell, one which the Dark Immortals had claimed was a casting of the light gone horribly wrong, a symptom of the sickness of the holy spirits of Lithrydel. Lionel has never given it much thought. Lionel isn’t a big fan of the gods. But he’s known to steer clear of those winds, just as he steers clear of the lightning storms that often join them on the deeper stretches of the dunes, and for the Warrior’s Guild’s upcoming mission, he’s relied on old maps he hasn’t had need of since the Second Immortal War. The maps have guided him, and his squire, down a circuitous path avoiding all those black clouds of evil intent. It’s been a veritable rat’s maze, in the high heat and rolling landscape of a dead place, with the massive skeletons of long-dead dragons, and the occasional vulture pecking away at fresh-dead lizards and half-decomposed travelers. At the dawn of the third day, as the sun’s first rays slash the horizon in warm orange hues and the chill of the night begins to fade, Lionel spots a tiny settlement in the distance. It’s a single plastered-stone house, its color an almost even match for the sands which surround it, and it has a waist-high wall and various shacks and sheds and stables for the creatures shepherded here. It’s the first sign of civilization -- such as it is -- since they departed Gualon. And it’s precisely what Lionel has been seeking. “There,” he tells Rorin. “My old contacts.” He smiles, renewed with this finding, and leads the rest of the way.
Rorin trekked onward behind his sworn mentor. The quiet days and fearsome battles truly gave time for thought and inflection and perhaps this is what some men craved. Not bloodlust and glory but the awesome peacefullness of these solemn miles. Beside him tirelessly accompanied the Winter Wolf Isangrim through sand and sleet and snow. Rorin gave plenty of thought to the ancient ruins and nameless once-towns that littered the stony floor of the vast and aptly nameless desert. He took flight of fancy in imagining just what the divines had pictured for this place. The winds were brutal, and home to brutal beasts acclimated to them, just as much as the storms which spawned desert glass. Wherever Lionel went Rorin would follow. He placed full trust in his Commander and would defend the man to his last. Despite all of the dangers this place carried a sense of wonder in it's deathly serenity. The domocile they found seemed little more than a hut to Rorin despite it's somewhat picturesque placement. "How old, exactly?" Rorin questioned seeking to know exactly when Lionel had known whatever brain fried hermits to live out here for where Lionel saw civilization Rorin questioned if it had signs of life or if it was as empty as all the other ruins. Nonetheless he would follow onward with his canine companion dutifully at his side.
Lionel ponders the question, allowing a smirk to take his lips as the duo -- and wolf -- steps through an arch at the center of the wall. “Eighty-five, maybe eighty-six,” he answers cryptically. But it won’t be long until Rorin understands the answer. A few camels and accompanying yaks chomp away diligently at their ample breakfast from the comfort of spacious nearby stalls, and Lionel raps his knuckles against a door that’s curiously stone-made. After all, everything else in this humble far-out abode is comprised of a different material, and this stone door is carved delicately with intricate embroidered leaves that almost seem real to the touch. In fact, Lionel is cautious with his knocking, so as not to disturb these masterfully painted leaves. When the door swings open just seconds later, a woman of advanced years -- probably as old as Lionel’s answer would have suggested -- smiles graciously and curtsies with the casual finesse of someone who is quite familiar with the Catalian. “Endred and I have not seen you in a very long time,” she says, chuckling as she waves them in. “I apologize, Nel.” Lionel does the unthinkable -- he hugs her. How often will Rorin have ever seen him do such a thing? With anyone? Inside the house, it’s cool despite the fire, but cozy, if eccentric. Furnishings from nearly every region in Lithrydel sweep through the living quarters. A marble table from Larket is surrounded by Cenrilite chairs. A plush red comforter, avian from the looks of it, is sprawled out lazily across a sturdy Frostmawian couch. Portraits and paintings from Venturil and Craughmoyle and nearby Gualon wrap the four walls completely. Nel calls out, “Endred, it’s him! He’s returned, just as I said he would!” And then an old man, perhaps four or five years Nel’s elder, steps briskly from a hallway and examines the guests with a scutinizing eye. “Thought you were dead,” he mumbles. There is a brief tension in the air, until Lionel lofts a brow. “Not before you, old man.” And the tension bursts like a bubble, and Endred and Nel are insisting on fetching tea, and as they return with the tea, Nel examines Rorin with a simple curiosity. “Who’s your friend?”
Rorin purses at the answer. Years? Days? Hours? With Lionel time was sort of a vague concept. Still, the animals looked freshly fed, and it wasn't long until they were greeted by the matron of the house. Rorin would bow respectfully in greeting before listening well. To Rorin Lionel seemed incredibly comfortable with the little old lady and it brought to mind the question of which war exactly Lionel had needed this contact in. Must have been generations ago but perhaps that's simple exaggeration on the Pilgrims part. As the youngest one steps inside he concludes that for whatever reason the resident seems to have traveled the lands and settled here where they brought every visiting keepsake with them. It's not long before old introductions invite familiar exclamations and Rorin is removing the goggle and bandana from his head to greet them fully. As respectfully as possible he would politely give Lionel rights to speak first. There was not a moment in time Rorin would think to forego social cue in front of his elders.
Lionel| Nel beckons Lionel and Rorin to seat themselves at the marble Larketian table, and once they’ve done so, she and Endred do the same. Sugar cubes and cream are both on offer, if desired, and one might wonder where the old couple could possibly have acquired such things without considerable distance traversed. “We don’t get out much, as you’d imagine,” Nel makes small talk, waving her hand to encompass all the trinkets they’ve collected, “so Endred and I, well, we’ve brought all of Lithrydel to us instead.” Her smile continues, and it’s as warm as the slowly-rising heat in the abode. The sun is a bit higher in the sky, now, and Endred stalks over to the fireplace, confining its flames to tiny dying embers. As he stalks back, he fetches a burlap sack, and slides it across the table toward Lionel. “Found it the last time I dug for water.” Lionel gently unwraps it, revealing a small jade badge with the mark of a falcon on its front. “Heh.” He brings it up into the light, and it sparkles. “Hand of the Chosen. It’s been a while.” Endred nods. “Keane still kicking?” Lionel shrugs. “Haven’t seen Donovan in years. He had a son, though. Married Cailyn and everything.” Nel grins. “I knew they would. I see things, you know.” This remark prompts Lionel to clear his throat and set aside the badge. “That’s why we’re here, Nel. I’m sorry, but this is no mere social call.” The old couple frowns, but seems to understand. “Rorin, tell them what we’re searching for, will you?”
Rorin finds this whole thing to comfortably odd. Or is it oddly comfortable? He wasn't sure. Rorin took tea or coffee with two sugars, please. He nods along to the sentimentality of the elderly couple. He had no idea what was going on until Lionel called on him. The young Pilgrim took a deep breath, "bugs," he would start simply, "and no mere cockroaches. Arachnids of a terrifying size- their capabilities, endless, their threat, nigh unstoppable. Unless we can find them. Before they grow, and the grow fast, but we don't know where to start looking so we started here. We've defeated them in Kelay and from what we gather Gualon is next. They must be somewhere out here- in the desert- somewhere they can feed and breed without much interruption. Without anyone catching on. So we have to find them before they grow strong enough to come for us. That's what we've really come for," he was as grim as the situation demandes and as honest anyone who wasn't to deem others a fool. Tea and coffee was the only thing Rorin liked sugar coated, he preffered his bad news straight, as dark as it was.
Lionel goes silent after Rorin’s explanation, leaning into his Cenrilite chair and folding his arms over his chest with a sigh. He seems to be staring into the ether, and Nel and Endred haven’t left that act go unnoticed. Nel purses her lips, peers down at what’s left of her tea, and nods slowly. “Aye, my young friend. We know these bugs.” She lets that sink in, and Endred takes over the dialogue. “Their nest is surrounded by antlions’ holes twenty klicks south by southeast. You’ll need to be cautious on the route there. Bandits have taken this entire stretch of the desert; they’ve even surrounded our estate.” Nel grimaces, then sighs. “They’re just ruffians, with nowhere else to turn. They have a compound of sorts nestled underground much like these bugs of yours. Some of them, recently, we’ve seen them riding scorpions through the dunes. But they’re no winter wolves, those scorpions. Sooner or later, they’ll turn. They’ll kill the bandits, even if it costs them their own lives. It’s in their nature.” She chortles and finishes her tea. “You’ll want the gift, I suppose?” She asks Lionel, but he seems to be off in his own little world for a moment, giving Rorin a brief window of opportunity to ask further questions if desired.
Rorin is as surprised as he should be. "You've found them? Truly?" His thoughts were already racing. Antlions. Bandits. Rorin reached for Isangrim and scratched at the wolfs head in contemplation. "Surrounded? We've been pestered by them so far but if we can find the bandits too... what do you know about them? How long have they been there, what are they like?" He gave them time to respond before continuing the question barrage he was prone to, "what about the area can you tell us? Is it rideable, can we expect traps or sandstorms, or is there anything you think we can use against them? Bandits or bugs, we need to know everything you can tell us. We can't be going into this any less prepared than we already are," the Pilgrims thoughts were a flurry of possibilities, strategies, hopes, and dreams. There was much to be done.
Lionel | Nel waits patiently for the flurry of questions, a bemused grin plastered upon her face as stalwart and surely-held as the very plaster that maintains this entire structure. She does not take to answering each question individually, nor does she miss the chance to extend that grin to Lionel, who seems to be making a concerted effort at this point to remain decidedly unfocused. He has left the old folks to do the explaining, because to answer for them would invite too many questions about a chapter of his own past he’d rather not relive. “There’s enough left for one more trip,” Nel reminds Lionel, not yet speaking to Rorin. “We always left enough juice for one more trip. Didn’t think you’d use it except against Khasad, but... you strapping young men -- and women, I might add! -- took care of things rather well without it. Endred?” Endred rises gruffly from his seat, heading down the hall and out of sight. “Rorin,” Nel continues, grinning at him now with a certain sadness in her grey-green eyes. “You remind me an awful bit like another young man who once came here not so many years ago.” It should be patently clear by Lionel’s abrupt sigh who it is that Nel alludes to. “Time is of the essence. I understand that.” She reaches out to take Rorin’s hand; if he’ll accept, he’ll feel a certain renewed vigor, a magical energy not unlike his own paladin’s ways, but somehow even purer. It will grant him a boon of energy, but also, of resolve. “During the height of the Second Immortal War, Lionel and his friends enlisted our aid. We are not who we seem to be.” She permits herself a chuckle. “A common enough malady in Lithrydel, I do admit. So many hidden identities, dual identities, it’s almost too much to bear. But Endred and I -- my husband and I -- we have been the Watchers here for over four hundred years. And the artifact, the va’lere’den’sol, was passed down to us from even before our own time. It will bring you, and your companions, to the center of this great desert. When you are ready.” She pauses; Endred returns, with a meter-long immaculately-crafted eight-point silver sculpture. At its interior, a piercing red gem is engraved into folded metal not like any alloy Rorin is likely to have seen. “The bugs? What can I say? They do not come here, because we would not let them. The same can be said for the bandits. We’ve spotted wasp-like creatures, millipede-like creatures… what else, Endred?” Nel’s husband shrugs. “Some of the antlions are too big by far.” He shrugs again, lowering the va’lere’den’sol to the table. It seems to resonate. “One more trip,” Nel repeats. “Rorin, are you and Lionel intending to face these beasts alone? Or shall we wait until others of your clan, or guild, or country, or whatever it is he’s gotten himself wrapped up in this time, arrive here as well?”
Rorin still isn't entirely certain what sort of exchange is going on between his elders but waits patiently. He tries to be patient, at least. He wouldn't mind giving the elderly woman his hand at all and it rather vaguely gave him the wish that he'd had a grandmother of his own to look after him as a boy. What exactly were they? Rorin listened intently and nodded as he tried to understand what she imparted. He cannot however fathom the nature nor the age of the object they bring forth. Some ancient being somewhere long ago would know it's origin but not the youths of the world were left to ponder all but its function. "We wait," Rorin would say slowly, "this is... something of a war. Between us and them. We need time. To prepare. To gather our forces," he had no need to ask how long they could wait. These people... these beings were already ancient, he believed, and whatever was going on here Lionel seemed to have the habit of occasionally exposing Rorin to the true workings of the world. Perhaps this was just another act, just another piece, of the torch passed from knight to squire. Either way Rorin wondered both in awe and unnerve exactly what ghosts haunted Lionels past to have brought them here. Wether or not that was the right question was yet to be seen however.
Lionel hoists himself up from his chair. “Good tea.” He tips his chin to Nel and Endred, then whistles to Rorin. “We wait, and also… we don’t. We need to head back to the guild. Let them know the what’s what. Can’t risk pigeons in a place like this. I’d hoped you’d still be able to teleport us, Nel, but I couldn’t be sure. So I didn’t mention it. We’ll come back here in a few days time. It’ll be a larger party -- ten or so. You can trust them.” Thoughts flicker to the brisk night he and Donovan brought an army here to rest. It isn’t a good memory, but Nel’s cooking helped to alleviate it slightly. “Lionel,” Endred barks the word like venom. He flinches halfway to the door. “Don’t forget your oath.” Lionel swallows hard. “I won’t.” He opens the door. “Curious,” Endred retorts. “I sense you -did- forget it, for near-on a decade. This one help remind you?” He gestures to Rorin, who is presumably making ready to depart as well. “Aye,” Lionel answers after a silent moment. “Aye, I suppose he did.”
Rorin furrowed his brow slowly. Lionel was trying to leave, quickly. Why? "Right," Rorin agreed with him regardless, "we might wish to return with mounts and leave them here. If that's all right," Rorin flashed a polite smile at the elderly, before worriedly looking on towards the knight. Whatever happened between them Lionel had tried to leave it far behind for so many years. He could not yet imagine why but knew for some reason he would hear the truth some day. Rorin would give pleasant tidings to the old couple before he and the wolf at his side followed Lionel out the door. It wouldn't take him long before he had to ask, "Commander," loudly to the man, then more softly, "are you all right?" Rorin would know despite Lionels likely answer. But there just wasn't time for that yet. Or more likely the time for that hadn't come just yet.
Lionel said to Rorin, “I’m fine. Let’s just focus on the mission.”